


Bloody Sentiment.

by NativeHueOfResolution



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comfort, Drug Abuse, Family Angst, Gen, Overdose, Verbal Abuse, rehabilitation center, self hate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 07:12:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6460834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NativeHueOfResolution/pseuds/NativeHueOfResolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They can't go on like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloody Sentiment.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published work. It was writen alongside an amazing writer on Omegle, but we sadly lost contact. Whoever he or she was, they remain credited on this note.  
> Should I go on with this? Comment anything that comes to mind, bad or good, constructive or destructive. I'm willing to read it all.  
> Enjoy!

That pain was good pain. It had always been good pain, it had always meant escape. Oblivion, if ever for just a few hours. Hooded, sleeves rolled up, curled up in a far corner, hand clenched into a fist, syringe between his teeth as he tightened the old elastic above the crease of his elbow. Just one prick, and everything would fade. His mind would shut up for a bit, his body would relax, he would be at peace. Finishing college at twenty-two years of age left Sherlock Holmes with too much free time, and no idea of what to do next. He had a girlfriend, but just to make everyone shut up about him being single. It was none of their damned business anyway. He wasn’t interested in her at all. Not physically, not mentally. He couldn’t remember if they had shagged or not, and he certainly tried not to. His self-esteem had reached an all time low. His cheeks were sucked in, one could easily count all of his vertebrae, his hair was dry, and he couldn’t come to terms with himself. Not with his sexuality, not with who he was. He hated himself entirely. Once he was able to find a fat, throbbing vein, he shot up without thinking twice. A low groan escaped his throat, and his head fell back against the dirty brick wall. At his side rested a neatly written list. There was enough in there to kill him, and that dose of heroin had been the last thing on it. It was now a simple matter of waiting. For everything to end.  
Even at his young age and with a moderate position in the government, Mycroft still made it a priority to keep track of his junkie little brother. Naturally, the younger man didn’t make the slightest effort to reach him – he was too absorbed in the drug culture to care much about family. Even still, his little brother was the sole source of his sentiment. Should he perish, Mycroft would find no joy in living. A member of his division alerted him of Sherlock’s location. Luckily, the tracker he had implanted in his brother’s phone still worked. He didn’t know if Sherlock had picked up on it yet or not. With how brilliant the boy was, it was hard to believe he wouldn’t. He didn’t seem to care, though, to Mycroft’s own peace of mind. He was nearby – Sherlock was the only reason the older Holmes would ever get a flat on this side of town. He left his coffee on his desk, grabbed his suitcase, and dashed out, feeling the weight of the pile of unfinished paperwork he left behind on his shoulders. He raced over, and arrived at the drug den – a familiar one, sadly – only to find Sherlock and his accompanying list.  
“Oh, Sherlock...”  
The older started in a broken voice, receiving a barely coherent, muted gaze as he bent down to grab the list. This particular concoction took up nearly half of the page. Mycroft’s heart sank.  
“What have you done?”  
He murmured, pocketing the list and kneeling to get a decent grasp of the younger man’s shoulders. Driving to hospital would likely be much quicker, given how hidden in alleyways this place was. This behaviour had to end.  
That iron grip on his shoulders was sadly and all too familiar feeling for the younger Holmes. Sherlock wasn’t shorter than Mycroft, and yet he was almost three stone lighter. He despised his brother’s haste whenever he had an episode. He was always there, always watching, always attentive – just like he had promised. The youngster wished he could make him see that his life was not worth saving, and that he had to leave him alone. Mycroft had his own life. He didn’t need this burden, and Sherlock had no idea of how to get that through the other’s thick skull. The shapes came undone and went back to normal slowly, and noises went from muffled to crisp in the same manner. As his brother shook him gently, a twisted, lazy, and crooked grin spread on the pale man’s face, and his curl-hooded eyes peeked through heavy lids.  
“Wh-wh-what have I-I done? I... Wh-what I-I saw f-it.”  
He said in a raspy, strained voice, head lulling to a side.  
“C-come on, M-Mikey... F-fuck off...”  
Mycroft gulped. Seeing his brother in such a state unhinged his usually stately exterior. His hands were sweating, his heart was racing. Bloody sentiment.  
“You need help, Sherlock. Hate me all you want, it doesn’t change that.”  
He heaved his brother into his arms, bridal style, and began carrying him through the abandoned warehouse. Groans of pain exited the younger’s feeble frame as he was picked up, and as his brother moved as hastily as possible through the debris. There was no room for error. Mycroft had made sure Sherlock’s head rested securely against his chest, but after almost tripping over a piece of stray wood, his head had fallen back. It now lulled languidly, mouth open, curls bouncing in rhythm with his heavy steps. Mycroft simply couldn’t look at him.  
“It was way too much this time. Should you survive, I’ll force you to spend the rest of your life in rehab. I’m not always going to be there to save you.”  
He said with a voice that wavered with sadness as much as it did with anger. The hardest part to accept was that his brother didn’t want to be saved. It was a cruel reality, and a reminder that there was a part of Sherlock’s mind that Mycroft might never be able to fix.  
“F-Force me?”  
Sherlock fought back, but his voice was dying out. He ached to reply, to snap for Mycroft to let him go, to tell him to mind his own business, but his body was shutting down.  
“Only you would try and have the last word in your condition, brother mine.”  
Mycroft responded, the coolness of his voice replaced with worried affection, for once. His steps quickened, they were almost there. Sherlock’s body began to shake, and soon enough, retching overtook him. He vomited. Once, twice, thrice. By the fourth time, he was choking on it. His throat was obstructed, and so was his nose. With his head like that, there wasn’t a single chance of the puke actually falling out and not back in.  
“No, God, no.”  
The older Holmes was positively panicking now. He lost his composure entirely as he was covered in his brother’s vomit, from where it gushed down from the side of his mouth. He immediately knelt on the foul floor and laid Sherlock on his side, tilting his head so that the vomit could evacuate his mouth. He rubbed and patted his back, using his hand to pull out whatever was blocking Sherlock’s airways. More vomit came out.  
“Jesus.”  
Mycroft whispered, breathing hasty.  
“You’re not dying here. Not now, Sherlock.”  
He said sternly, voice commanding as tears ran freely down his cheeks. He fished his phone out of his blazer with his cleanest hand and dialled for emergency services. He had made a fatal mistake in trying to keep this a family affair. With a strength he truly lacked, Sherlock rose up a hand to latch it around his brother’s wrist. He didn’t intend to stop him from calling; he didn’t want to do anything of the sort. He just needed it. He needed to anchor himself, to feel something when his body was no longer sensitive. He needed to let Mycroft know that he was fighting. He really did need help. He had suicidal tendencies, he hated himself, but whenever things got to this point, he was suddenly filled with panic. The same sort of panic a child feels, sheer horror. He always went to his big brother to make it go away, he always knew how. Now, with his body intoxicated probably beyond repair, there wasn’t a thing Mycroft could do. Sherlock squeezed weakly as the older spoke, and squeezed again with decreasing strength until his body stopped retching. Just as Mycroft hung up, Sherlock stopped moving, eyes half open and body limp as his head rested in a puddle of vomit. He could no longer talk, but he sure as hell was yelling for his brother internally.  
“Damn you, Sherlock. Come on. Hold on for me.”  
The older begged, the mask covering his desperation falling to the floor and shattering into a million pieces. He felt useless. Being useless, nonetheless, was a privilege he didn’t have at the moment. Time was of the essence.  
“You’re going to be alright, Sherlock. Stay with me.”  
He pleaded, feeling for a pulse – there, but weak. His airways were still obstructed. The patting seemed to have done the trick, at least for the time being. Today was not Sherlock’s day to drown in his own vomit. The wait for the ambulance was agony. He compulsively checked Sherlock’s vitals, cursed him, and comforted him.  
“Not today, little brother.”  
He hummed, stroking a dirty hand through the other’s matted hair.  
“You’re going to be fine.”  
Eventually, the emergency services did arrive, and in a flurry of yelling and commanding, they were on their way to the hospital.  
Mycroft had been allowed to travel with him in the back of the ambulance, but he could barely see him anyway. A solid wall of paramedics surrounded his little brother, some of them cleaning him, some others giving him oxygen and fluids. Another one checked his vitals every few seconds, and barked out that the man would flatline just as they reached St. Bartholomew’s. The stretcher sped out of the truck just as the driver was speaking into the radio, saying that a case of top priority was coming in, and that everybody better be ready. Sherlock’s heart stopped before the team of doctors could even get him into the room. They had to reanimate him in the middle of the hall, and they didn’t move until they received a pulse.  
Hours and hours of stale and unsipped coffee went by, and Sherlock wasn’t fighting off the overdose correctly. His veins were collapsed, so was one of his lungs, and he simply didn’t seem to want to wake up. Mycroft couldn’t cope with the stillness of the waiting room. He stood up each time a doctor walked out of a room, thinking – hoping, rather – that it would be Sherlock’s doctor. The budding diplomat feared the worst and hoped for the best every single time. It wasn’t sensible, though, to be so hopeful. Finally, he stood again, and this doctor was for him, Sherlock’s doctor, delivering the news. Mycroft’s eyes closed for an instant. Comatose, the doctor announced with a hand on his shoulder. This wasn’t the first time they had met for this same reason. He advised the man to call his parents, and gave his most sincere condolences before walking away. Mycroft plopped down onto the chair, putting his face in his hands. He had failed as an older brother. No other achievement would ever help him recover from this. He shamefully called his parents to tell them the occurred, and twenty minutes later, he was allowed into Sherlock’s room.  
Sherlock looked like a ghost on that bed. Lips parted to allow a thick tube into his throat, skin pale and blotched with purple, bones more apparent now than ever. Not even asleep did he look at peace. He bore bruises on his arms, and his chest heaved and sunk slowly. Without all those cables and tubes plugged on and into him, he would die. And that was a tragic thing to say about a twenty-two year old.  
Unable to do anything else, Mycroft sat down by his bed and held his hand, listening to the beeping machines.  
Half an hour later, the door opened again. In came a very pale Mrs. Holmes, streaks of tears on her very straight, very blank face. She uttered no word, and sat opposite to Mycroft, grabbing her little boy’s hand. Again. This was happening again. And Sherlock had gone way too far this time. Mr. Holmes followed, and he stood behind his older son. His hands rested on the other’s shoulders, and they were heavy. Not reassuringly, but with the immense pain the man felt. They remained in deafening silence for a couple of minutes, until the eldest spoke softly.  
“Where was he and what did he take, Mycroft?”  
Mycroft was too absorbed in the slow rise and fall of his brother’s chest to even pay attention to his parents. He certainly didn’t react when the crushing weight of his father’s hands laid on his shoulders, and he only looked up after the question. He reached into his filthy coat and retrieved the paper. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was deeply thankful for Sherlock’s upkeep of their little promise. Each time, scribbled in his own neat writing, were the exact contents of his poisonous cocktail of drugs. It made it easier for him – it made him believe that, deep down, Sherlock wanted to survive these erratic outbursts of drug overdose.  
“Crack den. Read for yourself.”  
He said, handing it over. He avoided his parent’s gaze, and instead returned his eyes to his fading brother. He couldn’t decide what was more painful.  
A small gulp seared through Mr. Holmes’ throat as he read the dirty list. It didn’t take him long to go through the half page of pure venom his son had purposely dunked into his system. He closed his eyes for just a second and reached up a hand to cover his eyes, taking a deep breath. Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?  
Mrs. Holmes had raised her gaze as she had seen her husband cover his face. That made her heart freeze.  
“Let me see.”  
She extended a hand forward, but the man shook his head.  
“Timothy.”  
She warned, voice cracking, despite it being a soft whisper. He shook his head again and pocketed it. The woman knew better than to argue right that instant, so with a weak sniffle, she turned to her son again. She stroked up and down his arm softly, bringing his hand to her lips to kiss his knuckles. Shortly after that sickening silence had enrobed them again, Mycroft’s phone began vibrating. Stricken by it, their older son quickly reached into his pocket to grab it. The thing was filthy – he had to remind himself that it had recently been immersed in a puddle of his brother’s vomit. The number on screen froze his spine.  
“Excuse me, I have to take this.”  
He said, voice bordering on robotic as he stepped outside the room.  
“I’m sorry, sir, it was a family emerg—“  
He paused; his boss was speaking over him. He was fuming, very clearly so. This wasn’t the first time one of his star employees had run off to save his drug addict of a brother. Mycroft gulped, and taking on the persona of a hit dog, he leaned his forehead against the wall, phone still against his ear.  
“Right, sir. Naturally, sir. Of course, sir.”  
Another pause.  
“It is out of my control whether this will or will not happen again. Do have the common sense to understand that.”  
He snapped, immediately regretting it. His boss hung up. Likely fired. As if it mattered. Every bone in his body ached for revenge – against the British Government, for not taking action on the drug issue, against his boss for being so irrational, and most importantly, against himself for being a failure. He stalked off to the restroom, unable to look at himself in the mirror as he pressed handfuls of cold water to his face.  
\--  
It wasn’t until three days later, during a very cold night, that Sherlock came back round. His parents were gone; they had been there during the day. They were not unemployed, and they had to keep their jobs. Sadly enough, the system was too insensitive to grant them a week’s vacation for the possible death of their son. They would return the following day, as they had been doing so far.  
Sherlock couldn’t help the absolute horror coursing through his mind and body as he woke up and realised that he was alone. The lights were dimmed, and yet his eyes burned. All of his last memories seeped into his consciousness, and he slowly became aware of every single hurting inch. Weak groans passed his tight throat, and his hands scrambled around in panic.  
“Ycrof.”  
He called out with that thick tube in his mouth, out of sheer reflex. He gulped thickly around it, and groaned again, his pulse machine soon picking up speed with the uneasiness he was feeling. Was he dead? He doubted it. Why would his afterlife begin in a hospital?  
“Elp.”  
Naturally, his older brother hadn’t left his side all this time. Mycroft had been sleeping in a rollaway bed in the corner these last few days, and he sprung to his feet at the sound of the machines and Sherlock’s feeble voice. He sighed in relief when he noticed that nothing bad was going on, and simply stared at him for a few seconds. There was his idiotic brother, clawing at the tubes and cables keeping him alive. Despite his exhaustion, he walked over to the bedside to comfort the scared patient.  
“Sherlock. It’s alright. You’re alright.”  
The soothing tone of his voice contrasted with the harshness it took on when he barked for a nurse over his shoulder. In this sense, he was useless aside from the emotional support he could provide.  
“Look at me, Sherlock. It’s alright. You’re in the hospital, and you’re going to be okay. I’m here.”  
Sherlock almost stopped breathing as Mycroft grabbed his hand, and he stared up at him with wide eyes. He was having a hell of a time trying to understand this, and his brain was very slowly coping with these tremendous amounts of information. He gulped once more and mumbled something unintelligible, words mixed with pained groans. He squeezed his brother’s hand, if only weakly, and stared with even wider eyes as a nurse approached to check his vitals. Mycroft stepped back and allowed the professional to work. What his brother needed was genuine medical care, not comfort. Even still, it wasn’t easy to ignore Sherlock’s groan of protest as he let go of his hand.  
Everything seemed to be in order, thankfully. Well, as in order as it could be, anyway. The nurse helped him sit up, which proved to be rather painful for Sherlock, and carefully pulled out the breathing tube. She pressed a towel to his hand for the gag that came with the exit of it, and quickly switched him to a breathing cannula in his nose. Sherlock coughed for a little bit, and the nurse helped him back down once his breathing eased up. She told Mycroft to keep a close eye on him, and told him to call if his breathing became uneven. With that, she left the two of them alone again.  
Now that he slowly got a grip on himself, Sherlock lost his entire frightened demeanour. He looked up at Mycroft as the other returned to his place by the bed. He still grabbed his hand, and squeezed it weakly.  
“It didn’t w-work.”  
He mumbled in a hoarse voice. Mycroft tensed at that comment.  
“No. It didn’t. But it almost did, is that what you wanted to hear?”  
He retorted bluntly.  
“You’ve been comatose for four days. Your lung collapsed, Sherlock. Mummy and Father are beyond disappointed.”  
He snapped, temped to yank his hand away. Sherlock rolled his eyes at that. Quite an acted out reaction, because hearing that did hurt. He couldn’t let that show. So. In a coma for four days. Nice. New record.  
Although Sherlock needed comfort right now, Mycroft allowed himself to be irritable. Nothing like a little tough love, after all. Not to mention he hadn’t gotten any genuine sleep, nor left the tiny hospital room for a few days.  
“I can’t let you out of my sight again.”  
Mycroft concluded, and Sherlock rolled his eyes again. He glared at him, and slowly pulled his hand away to cross his arms over his chest.  
“Why didn’t you let me die?”  
Mycroft’s heart almost visibly broke. For a fleeting second, Sherlock actually felt bad. But then he thought, why should he? He hadn’t asked for this. Mycroft looked away, carefully choosing his words.  
“You didn’t want me to let you die, at the end.”  
He said truthfully. He would never be able to erase the look of fear in Sherlock’s dying eyes. Sherlock Holmes wanted to be saved. He snatched a napkin from his brother’s night table and very discreetly began to try and clean his suit. He wanted to erase the evidence that he hadn’t left all of these days. Caring wasn’t an advantage, after all.  
“I’m sending you to the best rehabilitation centre the country has to offer, once you’re back on your feet. It’s in the countryside. No more London for you.”  
At it all, Sherlock just rolled his eyes again.  
“That was clearly not me begging, Mycroft. Isn’t it the body’s natural response to want to live? I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t ask you to save me, my own biology did.”  
He snapped at the other’s first statement. The sense of the sentence was debatable, but he didn’t care. Sherlock Holmes would never not have the last word. The occasions where he made himself look like a wanker were scarce, but existent. This was one of them.  
“And who are you to send me to a centre full of shrinks? Who are you to think I will allow that?”  
He snarled angrily.  
“Mmh?”  
Taking a deep breath, Mycroft rolled his eyes. He was losing it with Sherlock, even in his dire state.  
“I’m not going to argue with you, Sherlock. I know what I saw. It’s best for you to remember who the coherent one in this situation was. Who the one without the drug-addled brain was.”  
He explained calmly, voice unwavering. Sherlock only seemed to further raise his shoulders in tense anger. Most would be frustrated when the person they’ve been waiting for woke up and snapped at them like that. For Mycroft, it was more reassuring than anything. He was the same as always.  
“Your doctors and I arrived at the decision while you were unconscious. Your level of addiction and accompanying mental health problems have left Mummy and Father as those determining your care. After reporting back to them, we decided that this was the best choice.”  
He said calmly. Sherlock glared at him, and Mycroft glared right back. He reminded himself that he was the strong one. He wasn’t going to lose it.  
“It seems, brother mine, that you don’t have much of a choice in it anymore. You’ll be treated, and then you can return to your normal life.”  
Did that hurt Sherlock right in his very fragile pride? Deeply so. He was an adult in the eyes of the law, he was older than eighteen, he was supposed to be able to decide for himself. Now, nonetheless, he had been put under the custody of his parents again, and there was nothing he could do. He hated it. He hated himself, he hated his life, he hated Mycroft for acting so bloody condescending, he hated his parents for caring, and he hated the law for acting against him.  
“Mental health problems?”  
The biggest look of disgust came upon his pale face.  
“Care to elaborate? I don’t know what you’re talking about, brother mine.”  
He snapped, baring his teeth. Mental health problems. Yeah, right.  
“And thank you very much for telling Mummy and Father, that was exactly what I needed. Two more idiots on my back. How do you three expect me to ever be independent if you’re constantly controlling me?”  
He snarled, fists tightly clenched. Mycroft was beginning to lose his mask. Yes, he was the strong one, but bloody hell... Sherlock was impossible. He took a deep breath, and didn’t wait for his brother to finish his sentence before he spoke again.  
“Oh, Sherlock, don’t be daft.”  
He spoke, voice quieting down his brother’s.  
“You can’t honestly expect me to believe that you’re completely unaware of it. Put the pieces together. This is the, what, fourth time you’ve intentionally overdosed? You write it all out for me, there is no way you don’t understand how much you’re giving yourself. That is, unless the drugs have completely taken over what’s left of your brain cells.”  
His voice was so eerily clear, so eerily composed. He was trying as hard as he could to keep it together. His only sign of distress were his balling fists. Not for long, though.  
“You...”  
At that very simple word, his eyes filled with tears, making his marble exterior collapse entirely. Two dropped down his cheeks.  
“You died on the table, Sherlock. Not just for a moment, it was minutes. So before you begin accusing our parents or, hell, even me, for stealing your independence, consider the state you’re in.”  
The older Holmes buttoned his coat, and stood up.  
“Mother and Father will be in to see you shortly. Deal with them yourself. Enjoy that part of your independence, brother.”  
And for the first time in quite a while, Mycroft left the room.  
Sherlock was left frozen on the spot. He hadn’t anticipated that. At all. Mycroft had been irritable, upset, annoyed, indifferent, condescending, sarcastic, and many more things in front of Sherlock, but he had never done that. He had never lost his stone visage so quickly, he had never shed tears like that in front of his brother. He left the younger positively speechless, and with wide eyes. He didn’t react as his brother left, and simply stared stupidly at the door.  
Hours later, he had to endure both of his parents bickering with him, berating him for being so bloody reckless, and telling him how nerve-wracking and worrying this had all been for them. Sherlock’s chat with Mycroft, amazingly, had made him see some sense. He wasn’t aggressive with his parents, he didn’t talk back - not as much as usual, anyway – and simply listened to whatever they had to say. He owed them that much.  
\--  
A full week later, a mere four days since Sherlock had been released from the hospital, he was sitting on the passenger seat of his brother’s expensive, government-issued car. They were on their way to the rehabilitation centre. Mycroft was a man of his word.  
Following his eventual return home and long deserved rest, the older Holmes had returned to work. It was a miracle he wasn’t fired. With a little manipulation of the circumstance – it seemed his superior did have some compromising material to dig up after all – he even ended up with a promotion. That and a brand new, very expensive car to keep the entire scandal under wraps.  
They remained in perfect silence most of the ride. Sherlock’s face said it all. As they travelled down a long dirt road in the middle of the British countryside, Sherlock glanced back at his luggage piled up on the backseat. With an exasperated sigh, he turned back to the front and rested his head against the window. Allowed to fall with a crisp thud, rather, a look of pure annoyance and betrayal on his face.  
“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. Abandoning me with a bunch of freaks... Brotherly, Mycroft, truly.”  
Mycroft took a deep breath.  
“I suppose I’ll grant you a reply, despite you not deserving it in the slightest. The staff you’re about to encounter are not freaks, but highly trained professionals. They’ll give you the highest quality care, and ideally, you’ll shake this dreadful addiction and return to being a functioning person. Tell me, how is that not brotherly?”  
“Functioning person.”  
Sherlock scoffed, burying his face in his hands as he took a deep breath. He tangled them into his hair and stared ahead for a few seconds, trying to calm himself down.  
“Functioning person. Aren’t you asking for a little too much now, brother dear?”  
He hissed, rolling his eyes disdainfully.  
“Highly trained professionals that will try to force me into a shape of thinking that is not useful for someone like me. They will want to make me what they consider to be ‘normal’.”  
He growled, shooting a quick glare at the man next to him before looking at the green hills through his window. It began to rain heavily, and Sherlock couldn’t agree more.  
“Tell me, do you really think a life like mine is worth saving or are you only doing this because Mummy would be sad if she lost her little Sherlock?”  
He muttered, shaking his head.  
“Pathetic. Perpetuating the life of someone who’s not interested in breathing.”  
Mycroft’s grip on the steering wheel tightened a tad.  
“Perhaps I am asking for too much, Sherlock, but you’ve always been one to surpass the expectations.”  
He commented lightly, eyes not leaving the road.  
“Believe me; they won’t be able to make you normal – whatever you consider that to be. As I said, we’ll start with functioning.”  
He sped up a little bit, turning on the wiper blades when the rain began. He took the verbal abuse as it came, remaining silent through it. He could get angry, even cry, in the comfort of privacy. But not now, not in front of Sherlock.  
“I hope you’ll thank me for this one day.”  
He said simply. The establishment was just up the road.  
“It’s what a good brother would do – but you wouldn’t know anything about that.”  
He shrugged.  
“Oh, that’s nice. That’s very nice.”  
Sherlock snapped, turning abruptly to glare at his brother. Damn him and his immovable demeanour. Damn the way he took Sherlock’s words, and how he didn’t let them affect him.  
“I am not a good brother. You know what’s funny? You say that like I actually ever tried to be a good brother to you, like I ever considered you deserved it.”  
He growled, teeth bared, fists clenched.  
“And do you know what’s even funnier? The fact that even though you know I’m a worthless piece of shit, a bloody sociopath, a horrible brother and an even worse son, you still try your bloody ice cold, tiny heart out to actually save me. Why don’t you save yourself some white hairs and allow me to fucking die next time, Mycroft?”  
He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the building ahead.  
“You can abandon me here if it gives you any sort of sadistic pleasure, just keep in mind that I know how to hang myself with the bed sheets.”  
Mycroft pulled the car over just a street shy of the building, and turned to give Sherlock his genuine, unwavering attention. Not a lot of cars went through the road in front of the behemoth of a building in the middle of a private terrain. Mostly speeding cargo trucks. Sherlock’s isolation would go well here. Certainly not a place to buy drugs. Or at least, Mycroft so wanted to believe. He was a good brother, no matter what Sherlock said.  
“Does it make you feel better, to say such hateful things? To express your rage towards the world through your words? Do let me know, because I’d so rather take your mindless bantering over peeling you off the dirty floor of a doss house.”  
He retorted. Sherlock’s last sentence had spent his patience entirely.  
“I will not let you die, Sherlock. You have left me no other choice. I nearly stopped my entire life in its tracks for you; because I’ve let myself be consumed by the one thing I’ve warned you about your entire life. I will admit that my junkie little brother is my sole weakness. Your loss would break my heart. So placing you in rehab is, if thinking of it in this way will make you feel any better, a purely selfish move. I do not want to live in a world without Sherlock Holmes.”  
He snarled, nails digging into his palms.  
“And how is that my fault?!”  
Sherlock’s voice had reached screaming levels, and the throbbing veins of his neck along with his bared teeth made for quite the picture. Mycroft was being selfish in his eyes. He had always known that. People were upset when others died in a purely egotistical fashion. They grieved because that person wasn’t there anymore to give them what they always got from them. Or so Sherlock believed.  
“And no, it does not help me feel better. Just so you know. I mean every single godforsaken word that leaves my mouth. You’re about to throw your little brother into a stimuli free environment, where I will be seen as a case and not as a person, as a broken toy in this bloody society, you will leave me to the chance of withdrawal, which will do wonders with my body, you will leave me unattended, without family, with strangers who do not care about me.”  
He hissed.  
“Quite the brother of the century you are, Mycroft. What did I ever do to deserve you?!”  
Mycroft gulped and stared at Sherlock with narrowed eyes. He started the car again, shaking his head heavily.  
“You’re such a petulant child, did you know that?”  
He asked quietly, taking a deep breath. As much as he’d like to deny it, Sherlock’s words did reach him. The place was, maybe, not what he needed after all. If Sherlock wanted to act like a child, he would be treated as such. With family.  
Instead of pulling into the facility, he drove ahead into the main road to make a U turn. He picked up quite a bit of speed, foot heavy with anger.  
“You may be getting your way this time, but do not get used to it. I’m getting you a live-in caretaker, and you’ll stay with me. Yet again, the world bows at your feet, Sherlock.”  
“Because I am bloody right, as usual.”  
It was purely a selfish move on Mycroft’s behalf, honestly. He couldn’t have Sherlock hanging himself with the sheets. If stimulus and company were needed, he would give him London on a leash. Even so, he was genuinely done with his brother’s cheek. It was quite a faulty move to collapse just as they were heading into the road. He turned his head, nails digging into the leather of the steering wheel.  
“That’s it, Sherlock, I’ve had it with you –“  
“Mycroft!”  
Sherlock yelled, and there wasn’t a hint of defiance in his voice this time. It was a shriek of pure fear. It was a fraction of a second, but Mycroft turned his head just to see the enormous truck speeding towards them. There was no time to hit the brakes as it plowed into them mercilessly, and everything turned to black.


End file.
